


Skittles

by theskittlesparty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Angst, Bromance, Bromance to Romance, Childhood Friends, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Love, M/M, Male Friendship, Road Trips, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Sciles, Supernatural Elements, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskittlesparty/pseuds/theskittlesparty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That might be his favourite thing about Stiles, that the kid can still be so damned carefree. Scott can’t and he’s not the one whose mind doesn’t switch off, doesn’t stop thinking even when the stars are high in the midnight sky. Actually, it baffles him a little. How can Stiles be so happy, here in this backwards country with only Scott and his own chatterbox thoughts for company, knowing they’re but hours and days away from meeting another monster of the night, that they no longer have a place to call their own, that they haven’t seen a full night’s sleep in months, and that they’re still lying to their parents?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Brief History

Scott and Stiles grew up together in the south of England, in a little village nestled in the heart of Kent. The boys were thick as thieves from the off – Scott would listen when Stiles could do nothing but ramble incessantly, fidget continuously, so that the chatter in his head might dull a little, and Stiles was never without a spare inhaler for those moments when Scott simply couldn’t breathe.

Scott’s father was a bit useless, a bit drunk, a bit violent, and eventually left Scott and his mother, Melissa, when he was eight years old. Stiles, known as Rupert in those days, was a constant comfortable presence throughout all of the mess.

Melissa McCall was a long held friend of Stiles’ mother, Sally Stilinski, whom fell seriously ill with a bout of pneumonia when the boys were nine. She never recovered entirely from the disease, and her weakened body was simply in no fit state to fight when cancer came calling two years down the line. The boys’ roles reversed where Scott became the calming source through Stiles’ ensuing anxiety troubles, and the following few months when whiskey was the only comfort for Detective Jonathan Stilinski before he came to the sober realisation that he was neglecting his boy, and determined never to touch a drop again.

Scott and Stiles spent up their youth trying to make as much mischief as humanly possible without getting caught with their hands in the cookie jar. That Stiles’ father was a Senior Detective with the Kent Police, that Scott’s mother was an Accident and Emergency Nurse at their local hospital, did little to dissuade them from their course of destruction. And if they ever did land themselves in hot water, they always had each other to nurse the wounds of their damaged pride. Life was ridiculously simple.

And then we bring them forward to eighteen years of age, and the boys take a camping trip across the pond to the Coachella Valley in California. Only days in to their summer long West Coast road trip, before University begins for them in the autumn, the boys become separated one warm night and Scott is attacked by something. When nothing comes of the bite, that heals rather more quickly than either of them would expect – particularly considering that they forwent proper medical treatment – when they find no other reports of mysterious animal attacks in the area, when they see no other sighting of the beastly thing, they conclude that it was only a mountain lion, ignoring all suggestions that it might possibly have been a wolf. After all, wolves haven’t been spotted in California in over sixty years, so says Stiles’ travel guide. The guide that Stiles throws away less than two weeks later, when Scott turns into some odd hybrid between man and wolf, and nearly eats him. Thankfully, Stiles is apparently better at climbing trees than a newly wolfed out Scott, and once the full moon dips back behind the mountains, when Stiles can walk off the night long cramps left from spending half a dozen hours up a tree, Stiles is otherwise unharmed and Scott is all human once again.

Following a four day long argument regarding the impossibility of fantastical beasts and mythical creatures, they eventually agree that Scott is now a werewolf.

By the end of the summer, when they are due to return to England, they’ve got Scott’s more violent and animalistic tendencies down to a manageable level of what the fuck. However, it is obvious to the both of them that returning home is now a distant dream. They’ve changed, they’re different now. Stiles knows that there is more to this world than he’d originally thought, and that simply cannot be ignored, and Scott has morphed into one hell of an athletic genius, and such skills need to be applied constructively.

They have a new purpose, in any event: finding the werewolf who turned Scott so they can ensure that this doesn’t happen to another innocent fool.

Maybe they’ll meet a few other monsters along the way.

Their parents receive letters in the post some days into September explaining that the boys are extending their trip, taking an entire year out before returning to school, and that they promise to keep in touch, and send all of their love.

No return address is provided.


	2. Act One

Scott watches Stiles, watches as he licks his lips, tonguing the cut that stopped bleeding a while ago. He wants to say something. Nothing is forthcoming. He wants to take him away. No one deserves this world they’ve found themselves.

They need a new one.

He plays with his wrists, thumbs pressing at the imaginary bruises that circle there, wonders where the others are, wonders if they’ve found their own freedom yet, wonders why he doesn’t care. He misses them sometimes, though never would he tell Stiles. There is a fair amount he would never tell Stiles. Oh, he trusts the boy with his life; he doesn’t trust the kid’s emotions. The bugger’s too sensitive for his own good.

Stiles shifts, leans forward to rest his head on the dashboard. Sometimes, his head is too heavy for words. He wonders whether, if he could only stop thinking, that maybe his head wouldn’t droop the way it does so often these days. There are too many of them, too many thoughts. He cannot hear them all because they’re jumping all over each other for his attention. He’s deaf.

Scott cannot look away from him, cannot look at anything but the back of Stiles’ head. Better than his face at the moment.

He seriously wants out of this. He aches all over, knows Stiles feels worse. This isn’t their life. They’re better than this.

And he’s something of a romantic, believes the lines in fairytales, the ones that tell of happily ever afters. He wants to find theirs. After all, it’s out there somewhere, he’s sure of this.

“We could always run away, again. Alaska, maybe. We wouldn’t need to go far. No one would ever find us.”

Stiles lifts his head at Scott’s words, pulls himself up slowly to rest deep into the passenger seat. Groans softly. Shakes his messy hair gently.

“Nah, you’re okay, Scotty. Not today, anyway.

We’ll be fine.”

Scott sighs. The answer is always the same.

“I know. I know because I love you.”

Stiles finally stops playing with his lip, stops moving at all.

“I love you, too, Scotty. Now stop with this dreamy sentimental nonsense and drive.”

Scott hugs the steering wheel, facing forward, bored of staring at the bruises shadowing Stiles’ bright eyes.

“Where to, Sir?”

He tips his cap, the one he isn’t wearing.

“Anywhere. Home.”

Home.

“Think we’ll ever find it?”

Stiles looks at Scott, no nonsense. Scott always feels like a chastised toddler under that golden stare.

“We have it, you fool. We’re home, you and me. That’s all we need. Everything else is pancakes.”

Pancakes.

“Hungry for a pit stop? I know this little cafe.”

Stiles perks a little at that. They’re both terrible gluttons.

“I want waffles.”

Scott nods.

“I want a milkshake.”

Stiles nods.

“I want strawberries and cream.”

Scott cocks his head, silently agrees.

“I want a lobster.”

They’re wearing their best poker faces now. Game on.

“I want a Rolls Royce.”

“I want a giraffe.”

“I want snow.”

“I want Atlantis.”

“I want a carrot.”

“I want pea soup.”

“I want an umbrella.”

“I want forever.”

“I want you.”

Scott is silent for a beat, rolls his eyes because Stiles isn’t looking at him anymore, he’s looking out of the window to his right. Scott wishes he wouldn’t do that.

“Fuck off, you sod.”

He can almost see Stiles grinning, not a common enough sight these last few months. He smiles himself, just a little bit.

“Fuck off yourself, prat.”

Stiles licks Scott’s cheek and turns to the window again. There’s nothing to see but trees. Endless.

They could live in a forest, they could do that. Showers, though, they’d be a little tricky. Suppose they could bathe in a lake somewhere.

Maybe they should fuck off to Alaska.

“I want you, too.

I guess.

But only with pancakes.”

Stiles wants to go wherever Scott does. He’ll go to Alaska, if that’s what Scott wants. They can be nomads together forever. He wants breakfast first, though.

“Fine, but I want waffles.”

Stiles bites Scott’s ear, nibbles his earlobe just a little, settles back in his seat. Scott brings the engine to life, he won’t smile. He won’t.

Stiles rests his bare feet, ankles crossed, up by the wing mirror. Scott pulls the jeep away from the curb, drives them down the country lane. He’s pretty sure he remembers a café nearby. Somewhere. Either way, they’ll be fine. And everything else is pancakes. 

.

Despite the incredible mountain of waffles sat before him, covered so seductively in blueberry syrup, Stiles continuously steals bites of Scott’s sweet lemon pancakes and Scott forgets to be mad at him even though Stiles had insisted that he didn’t want pancakes. Stiles is wearing that cheeky smile, the one that reminds Scott of easier times, reminds him that there can still be easy times, in amongst all of the mess that has become their lives.

That might be his favourite thing about Stiles, that the kid can still be so damned carefree. Scott can’t and he’s not the one whose mind doesn’t switch off, doesn’t stop thinking even when the stars are high in the midnight sky. Actually, it baffles him a little. How can Stiles be so happy, here in this backwards country with only Scott and his own chatterbox thoughts for company, knowing they’re but hours and days away from meeting another monster of the night, that they no longer have a place to call their own, that they haven’t seen a full night’s sleep in months, and that they’re still lying to their parents?

Then again, Scott feels pretty happy in this moment here, sat across from his best friend, sharing breakfast in the early afternoon, lost together in this forgotten diner in this strange country in this dream world of childhood fantasies and adult nightmares.

Scott nods to himself because he feels content now, in this present time, the only time that can actually matter to them these days. Forgetting where they are for even a moment, after all, can be their very last moment.

He still grumbles when Stiles swipes a rather enormous slice of his last pancake.

The waitress comes over every once in a while to pour them more coffee and Scott smiles politely at her. He can see the powdery hint of old age creeping its way over her cheekbones, feels a little sad.

Everyone is ageing. Everyone is dying.

He’s so fucking scared that Stiles will leave him one day, that he won’t be enough to stop him, to save him. He’ll be wild when that finally happens. He’ll be the very thing they’re trying to stop.

He can’t bring himself to care.

Stiles subtly pulls Scott’s plate closer to him, ignoring the sad and defeated hunger in his best friend’s eyes because he’s not quite the pig Scott thinks him to be, not quite. He lifts the biggest waffle, the one drenched so thoroughly in syrup it’s now more soggy purple than crispy brown, from the stack on his own plate and lowers it onto Scott’s. He considers the two plates for a moment, slides another waffle over to Scott’s, and pushes the plate back to Scott’s side of the booth.

He doesn’t ignore the happy gleam in Scott’s eyes, grins to himself because it is so easy. Being with Scott is so damned easy.

“You get much sleep last night, dude?”

Scott’s going for casual. Stiles knows him better than that.

“I got enough, stop mothering me. Prat.”

He’s smiling, always smiles when Scott does his concerned parent routine. He knows Scott has never viewed him as weak, never will, and it’s enough for him to allow Scott his protective nature. The kid thinks of himself as a hero, and maybe so does Stiles, just a little.

Stiles looks out the window, looks at the greenery, looks at their jeep, looks at the invisible brick road their chasing, feels exhausted, feels a little bored. He wants this new life about as much as Scott does. 

“When will we reach the Redwoods? Seriously, if this is our lives now we might as well see some of what we came here for, right dude?”

They have agreed that, despite having a self imposed mission to carry out, they don’t need to lay all of their travelling plans to rest. Driving is the next best form of transport to running on foot when following a scent, and it would just be silly not to partake in a few popular tourist endeavours along the way. 

“We’ve not even passed through Santa Barbara yet. I thought you were more interested in the Californian surf than the greenery. Why I could never guess, since the waves of Cornwall you’re used to hardly compare to the swell of the Sunshine State. You and your little English surfboard will be swallowed whole. And don’t expect me to save your ass when that happens.”

“Oh, because I’ve never saved your furry ass before? I managed just fine back in San Diego and Orange County, as you saw for yourself.”

“I saw you swallowing an awful lot of sea water. Now I don’t claim to know much about surfing, kid, but I’m pretty certain you’re supposed to be standing on top of the board, not flailing underneath it.”

“Dude. Low blow.”

“Dude. Sue me.”

They fall silent. Stiles is looking gormless, his favourite expression, and Scott is trying admirably not to laugh at him. Stiles looks so wounded, though.

Resistance is futile.

They both know Stiles isn’t the athletic type. Neither of them had been back in England, what with Scott’s asthma and Stiles’ complete lack of coordination. They had both made it onto the lacrosse team at school, it’s true, but that hardly counted since Mr Finstock, their coach, was possibly even more useless at anything sport related than they were.

Scott pauses his laughter briefly to consider how he’d fare on the lacrosse field nowadays.

“What if we lose the scent, Stiles? What then?”

“We carry on fighting beasties and admiring the beautiful American scenery, that’s what.”

“And that’s enough for you?”

“You’re enough for me, dude.”

“Fuck, Stiles. I’m not so sure I can return the sentiment.”

Stiles leans over their empty plates, to gain better leverage, and smacks Scott on the back of the head. Scott only smirks in response.

Stiles snorts, and then he sighs, low and heavy.

“We’ll find him, Scott. I can feel it in my bones. He’ll get his comeuppance, you mark my words.”

“He might be a she you know.”

“You got your ass handed to you by a girl? Dude.”

“I’d like to see you take her on. Seriously, imagine Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore’s future daughter.”

Stiles shudders.

“Huh. Guess we should hope it’s a bloke then.”

They drain the final dregs of their coffees, silently agreeing to jump back on the road. Time is ticking.

Scott pays the bill, smiles charmingly at the waitress, who looks a little disappointed to have her only customers leaving. She must get lonely. Scott hopes she has a family to go home to; everybody needs a family, whatever shape it comes in. He doesn’t know where he’d be without his.

Scott yelps when Stiles kicks his shin, simply because, kicks back harder because he still forgets sometimes that Stiles bruises, and he doesn’t. Stiles never cares, wears his scars like battle honours, teases Scott that he’s the real superhero because he’s the only one with proof. Scott silently agrees.

.

They’re back on the road, the diner less appealing now that their bellies are sated. Stiles is obviously growing restless, bored, because he keeps swinging the jeep from side to side along each long patch of endless straight road. Scott’s father used to do that when he was little, yelling ‘Rollercoaster!’ as Scott’s small frame was hurtled from one side of the back seat to the other. Scott would howl with laughter, drowning out his mother’s half hearted and plainly amused grumbling.

He misses his mother, hopes she’s not missing him.

Scott looks at his family, watches him bounce around in his seat as he throws the jeep into each bend of the road. Stiles is almost vibrating with energy, clearly amped and ready for round two with the beasties. Scott would rather they find a motel. They have enough fake credit cards to last them through winter, thanks to Danny, plus it will be dark again in a few hours and he wants to wait for Stiles’ latest battle wounds to heal before they begin hunting again.

And what?

They’re officially calling themselves hunters now?

According to Scott’s head, that’s a yes. A terrifying and altogether far too real yes that ought to be a no because what is his life? When did they make this silent decision? Did they? Or is Scott jumping the gun, again?

He wants to ask Stiles. He won’t, because then this whole thing will be acknowledged with words and neither of them is ready for that. He also doesn’t want to hear Stiles agree to this new way of life. He doesn’t want this to be their lives.

He doesn’t want Stiles to have battle wounds that need healing.

Their last was a true horror, though, and even if the world is blissfully ignorant to the supernatural beings that hide in its shadows, Stiles and he no longer are, and Scott feels compelled to protect it. He is a monster himself. He knows exactly what the world is up against.

“I’m knackered. Let’s find somewhere to fall asleep, yeah?”

He’s not. He feels more awake then ever after their feast, feels a little buzzed. They should probably stop eating so many sugary things. Both have an awful sweet tooth, though, and neither care about dentist’s warnings.

“Seriously? You want to go to bed now? Scotty, you need to work on that werewolf stamina. Not even the sun is sleeping yet.”

Stiles knows. Stiles knows that Scott feels guilty, feels responsible, feels the monster he’s so terrified he’ll become. Scott isn’t littered with bruises.

Stiles hates himself sometimes. Hates how much he’ll give Scott whatever he wants. Hates how he’ll never understand himself the way he does Scott. 

He gives a great sigh because no matter where he is he always enjoys being dramatic.

“I’ve a little research I’m behind on, I suppose. We could stop for the night. Only if there’s a wifi connection, though.”

“That’s as good as I can hope for, huh?”

“You bet, Scotty.”

They don’t know where they are. Don’t know where they’re going. Scott’s fairly certain they’re heading north only Stiles is following roads, not signs, and America is so big compared to England. No one seems to live here. One ghost town after another.

Winter will be fun.

Scott fiddles with the volume of the radio for something to do. He knows it’s a rather exasperating habit of his and anyone but Stiles would slap him silly. He just needs to keep his fingers, his hands, busy. The more he fidgets, the less awareness he has of Stiles’ gormless fish impression. Obviously the boy wants to say something, something he imagines he won’t appreciate. 

“You know, Alaska is probably filled to the brim with them.”

Stiles doesn’t want to look at Scott, to see his face as he realises they have no escape. This is it for them.

“That’s okay, though, Scotty. I mean, someone has to be the hero, right?”

Oh.

So they are going to use their words for this. Scott was hoping they could tiptoe around this forever.

“Stiles, kid. We’re not. We shouldn’t have to save the world. That was never supposed to be our responsibility.”

He wants to, wants to be the hero. He’s selfish, though. He’d rather keep Stiles than have the world at peace. And Stiles is so damned fragile.

“Who will if we don’t? No one else knows what we do. Can you ignore this because I can’t?”

They’re definitely talking about this.

Fuck.

“Stiles. I want.”

He ruffles his hair, shakes his head, bites his wrist.

“I’m scared, kid.”

“You won’t lose me. I’m tenacious. I’m so tenacious it would take everything you have and then some to misplace me for a moment. I’m glued to you, whether you like it or not. We’re in this together, dude.”

Scott thinks he might be a girl. He’s trying desperately not to cry. He wants Stiles to see what he sees. Only one of them is close to immortal.

Stiles glances over at him, glances again. The jeep slows to a steady crawl.

“Fuck, Scotty. You’re not bulletproof either. I could lose you as easily.”

Where is a damned motel in this forgotten wilderness? This isn’t something he wants to chat casually about, banter over. He wants nothing to do with it but if they’re going to acknowledge anything they’ll have an actual sit down conversation to discuss it. Maybe with beer, maybe drunk, definitely face to face.

They can’t be serious, can’t be honest, in a car.

Stiles settles his hand on Scott’s knee, loose and easy.

Warmth.

Scott doesn’t think he’s ever felt so calm.

“Why are we still here, Stiles? Why haven’t I shipped you back to safety yet?”

“You’re my best friend.”

Maybe there will never be an answer. That’s okay. And even if he does choke on air with every unexpected noise, every hurried movement, every whisper of the heated wind, he has his best friend. He has more than he ever imagined he could. They should stop questioning everything and just be. They’re young. They’re allowed to have fun whilst saving the world’s innocence.

Stiles parks the car outside a beachside motel just as the sun is kissing the moon goodnight. They take a room. Scott slips a sleeping pill in Stiles’ apple juice.

And that’s them for another day.


	3. Act Two

“I’m beginning to find myself the mildest bit fond of the accent.”

“We’ve been here too long, dude.”

Stiles claps him on the back, hard as he might because he knows it won’t leave a mark.

“You ought to get used to it, yourself, Scotty. They’re our people now.”

“I guess.”

Scott would rather be home. Oh, it isn’t that he doesn’t like the American people, or what little he’s seen of them so far, but their chipper tone is a little whiny to his sensitive ears. It’s always delivered with a smile, as if there isn’t a care to be had.

They’re a touch too jolly for what he’s accustomed to.

“They’re not that bad.”

Scott raises his eyebrows, eyes Stiles carefully.

“Okay, they are. They’re nice, though.”

“Too nice.”

“You just haven’t heard the good old British pastime of complaining in a while. Withdrawal is tough, you just have to be strong, Scotty. I’ll get you through this tough transition.”

“Maybe I don’t want to transition.”

“Maybe you don’t have a choice.”

“Maybe the sun needs to wake up before we talk in subtext like this.”

"Maybe I prefer the moon."

"Maybe you’re an idiot."

“Maybe I love you.”

“Maybe I love you, too.”

“Maybe we should have worn more than boxer shorts to sit on a beach in the dark.”

“Chilly?”

“Maybe.”

They’re sinking into the sand, still cold to the touch at this early hour. No one else is around. Strange to see a beach, so normally swamped with people, as bare as a newborn. Scott thinks it’s a little bit awesome to be so completely alone and still feel surrounded by all that he needs.

Should he want more?

Stiles is waiting for the first of the sun to creep its way over the winking sea. He’s waxing his board like he knows something about it; a nervous gesture Scott has endlessly ribbed him over since they started their American adventure. Stiles patiently ignores him whenever this abuse occurs.

Scott is thankful to all the deities he’s never believed in that Stiles hasn’t mentioned the fact that he only woke up in the late afternoon yesterday. Stiles definitely understands what happened because how could the genius not? Normally he’d have beaten the sun, quite like this morning. 

One day he’ll stop allowing Scott to do things like that.

Probably. 

Scott is playing with the sand, letting it slip through his fingertips and rain down upon his bare legs, catching on the dark hairs that gather there. He could be asleep, and maybe he still is, just a little bit. He likes to keep an eye on Stiles, though. Who knows what were-creatures could be floating beneath the current?

“Do you think they’re okay?”

Maybe it should feel a little odd that Scott never needs to hear the first part of Stiles’ thoughts to know what he’s talking about.

Maybe he doesn’t give a care.

“They’re fine.”

“Don’t baby me, twat.”

Scott sighs, throws his last handful of sand down towards the water. It doesn’t get very far. Most of it ends up in his mouth because that is his luck. He should have seen the change in the wind coming. 

“I don’t know, kid. I hope so.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Scott turns without thought, without hesitation, and nuzzles Stiles’ hair, kisses his temple long and hard.

“We’ll all be fine. Seriously, the good guys always win, right?”

“You need to educate yourself a little better, Scotty. Disney films don’t equate to the real world.”

“And since when does the real world contain werewolves?”

“Since now, since you were bitten, since forever probably.”

Scott is still nosing into Stiles’ soft hair, sweet and spicy. He rests his forehead on Stiles’ bare shoulder, kisses the bone beneath his lips, bites down gently. And then he pushes Stiles onto his back and throws a leg over his hips, trapping him in a Scott sandwich. Stiles doesn’t accept this immediate defeat, launches himself forward and tips them sideways. They tumble as one mess of limbs down the small dune, land on the damp sand that greets the frothy tide. 

They settle with Scott victorious over Stiles, dizzy and happy. He laughs, prematurely, allowing Stiles the moment needed to buck his hips, throw Scott to the water’s edge, throw his own body over Scott’s, press their noses together and smile like the Cheshire cat. Scott doesn’t comprehend this change until the froth is bubbling around his chin.

Even in this new neverland of theirs, even while Scott has the advantage of canine prowess, Stiles still has the benefit of being fast in wit, still has the knowledge to predict Scott down to a muscle twitch, still has more energy than a Duracell Bunny. Of course Scott is the one who ends up buried, ends up sprawled on his back with waves thundering over his head, ends up covered in sand and seaweed and Stiles.

The fucker is grinning at him. Scott is drowning and Stiles is grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

Sod him.

Before he can seethe for too long, before he can swallow the entire Pacific Ocean, Stiles’ weight is removed from his body and a lithe hand is offered. He thinks it is, anyway; he can’t really see for the salt and sand in his eyes. He grapples for it hopefully and gasps a great lungful of air in relief when his hand makes contact with the cool flesh, breaking the surface swiftly. His feet find ground, toes sinking safely into the sand and his arms find Stiles, balancing him easily. 

Scott is coughing and dry heaving and gasping and crying a little bit from the salt water.

Stiles is cackling. 

Scott punches him hard in the chest, feels a little vindicated at the grunt that escapes from Stiles. He leaves his hand where it falls, leaves his knuckles to slowly slide down the slick skin that might as well be his own. Stiles catches his hand before it breaks contact entirely, fiddles with his frozen fingers, twists his body to face out over the water. 

"Look who finally decided to get out of bed."

Stiles uses Scott’s hand to point out the pink horizon, fingers creeping between Scott’s, breath hot against the nape of his neck, tickling the damp hair that curls there.

Scott feels boneless.

"Fuck."

"Agreed, dude. Agreed."

. 

He thinks it’s a prank in the beginning. One moment Stiles is straddling his board as he paddles out to the swell, gentle sunlight blurring the edges of his shrinking form and leaving Scott sleepy with warm contentment. The next thing he knows, Stiles is nowhere to be seen.

The board is still there, bobbing along with the current.

Stiles is not.

Oh.

Well, that’s a little odd.

As far as Scott can remember, Stiles has never before disappeared so completely. They’re forever in each other’s pockets, even when Scott is adamant he doesn’t want or need Stiles’ company. The kid can be a bit of a pest, in all honesty. 

And, okay, maybe Stiles has been known to wander off whenever his thoughts take him by surprise, but Scott can normally sense when that will happen before it does. He’s seen nothing this morning to suggest Stiles has been anywhere but in his happy place. 

Scott’s definitely feeling a little concerned: this is bizarre. His ears are ringing, there’s far too much silence, and he’s shaking all over.

He might be ill. 

His first instinct is to howl in panic, and it takes more out of him than he’ll ever admit to suppress the urge bubbling low and painful in his throat. That this beach is still deserted is rather unhelpful.

His second thought is hesitant. He wants desperately to throw himself into the sea and search every inch of its blue depths for his best friend. However, he loathes looking the fool whenever Stiles pulls one over on him, which is ashamedly often, and this leaves him conflicted. While he’s half expecting his fool of a friend to jump up and shout ‘Sucker!’ at the top of his voice, cackling like a mad man and flailing his long limbs in a ridiculous victory dance, he does hope that, with all they’ve learned of the world recently, Stiles wouldn’t be that cruel.

But then, Stiles knows more than anyone where to draw the line. He’d never even consider a prank like this, especially not after everything the summer has brought them.

On that note, Scott is immediately tripping over his gigantic feet, skipping over the pale sand, and his head is too heavy, tipping him forwards so far he’s almost on his knees, and his feet don’t even notice the cold that envelopes them, and he is soaking wet, wading through the heavy tide and calling Stiles’ name as if he can still hear him from several feet under the water.

He doesn’t actually know what to do, if he’s being honest, other than to risk the burn of salt in his eyes as he seeks Stiles out beneath the waves. He’s still hoping Stiles simply wiped out and is going to resurface any moment now with a stupid grin on his stupid face like the kind of stupid he is.

Except that doesn’t happen, which leaves Scott feeling a little frantic, a little frayed around the edges.

He’s diving deeper and deeper into the current, fighting against the pull and ignoring the pressure at his temples. He can’t see past his fingertips this far down and he’s wondering if someone can cry in sea water, wishing on Stiles to keep breathing for him, willing his own lungs to last a little longer, when he thinks he hears something. A giggle. He cocks his ear to where he thinks it comes from, listens desperately for something, anything, else. Unfortunately, his need for air stabs him in the chest before another sound can float towards him. He only allows himself half a moment to taste the salty air, doesn’t even bother opening his eyes, before he’s ducking under the surface again.

When he dives back down to the deep, however, the silence is deafening.

He wants to scream, feels that he might like to simply drown himself rather than live knowing that he lost Stiles to a giggling sea monster.

He kicks a little deeper, the pressure pinching his nose and punching him between the eyes.

Fuck, kid, where the hell are you?

Scott isn’t quite as dumb as he comes across. He knows Stiles hasn’t simply been dragged by the undercurrent. He knows something wicked pulled him under, something beastly.

For a moment he entertains the idea that maybe it really is a mermaid, before he realises how ridiculous that would be. Hilarious, though, if he does get his Stiles back, because Scott will never let him live that down if it’s true. Still, he misses him more than he likes the idea of having something, finally, to laud over the kid.

A thought occurs to him in the dark belly of the sea, when the tightness in his chest makes him feel as if he’ll explode and all he wants is a little longer so that he can dip a little deeper.

Can werewolves drown?

Oddly, this is the first time since he was bitten that he has even considered the possibility that he may never end.

Fuck, what if he lives forever?

What if he outlives Stiles?

What if he already has outlived Stiles?

The whine that follows this thought is foreign to his ears, despite knowing he made the sound himself. He can no longer help himself, so desperate is he that his wolf side is beginning to take the wheel, leaving him feeling raw and a touch mad, a pinch savage. He can taste the need for a brawl on his tongue.

By some magic, by some sheer dumb luck, his stream of whining is answered. 

Childish laughter echoes inside his head, teasing him because it knows something he doesn’t, knows where to find his Stiles. The giggling grows louder, wilder, his own pathetic keening beyond his control now, and he’ll pass out any second if he doesn’t head back to the shore but he refuses to lose the beast again.

Before he can prepare himself for the battle he’ll surely be facing, though, his sight turns golden and all he can smell is the sweet spice of glee. His lungs are yawning in relief at the sudden rush of oxygen that comes from nowhere, comes from the golden haze blinding him, and he feels drunk, feels delirious, feels happier than he thinks he’s ever been. 

He cannot stop laughing and he has no idea why.

He finds that he doesn’t mind, though. This bliss, this golden happiness, is beautiful.

. 

Stiles doesn’t even have time to marvel in the fact that he is breathing underwater and that the sun fell into the ocean. He barely remembers that Scott will be mad that he’s disappeared on him. He’s too happy to think.

Mermaids. 

He’d thought the idea of leprechauns laughable but mermaids? And they’re not the sweet darlings that one disney film has most of the world believing. Quite the opposite.

They’re terrifying: in their strength, in their silence, in their beauty. They’ve golden eyes and golden manes and golden tails. Formidable fluid statues may be the only way Stiles can hope to describe their stoic grace. He wants to be one.

They’ve kept a respectful distance from him as they build a circle around him, observing him with a hunger that speaks to Stiles more of social gain than of a desire for satiety. Difficult to discern male from female, all faces resemble their neighbour, warm and wanting, wise and content. All bodies of similar structure, though some appear brighter, emit a greater heat than their counterparts. 

Stiles begins to count them, though he loses his footing somewhere between eleven and thirteen. It would seem he has forgotten his numbers altogether. No matter, decides he, there are enough to provide him good company. 

As he watches these beauties watch him, he longs to touch one. He feels that to do so would be uncourteous, perhaps even unjust. Even so, their warmth radiates through him until he feels like cold has never been a part of his lexicon, that blue is a colour unknown to him, that nothing was anything before this world of sunshine. That they say nothing yet he feels their welcome is so natural, so instinctual, he’s quite forgotten where this world began, quite forgotten that he was, not long ago, struggling to keep afloat amidst a cold current, attached to a board whose connection to him must surely have snapped, losing focus on the blurring figure of his best friend out on the distant shoreline, forgetting his mind to the taste of salt and bile. 

He’d gladly succumb to this addiction instead of those memories. Those dreams? He hardly cares which. Those were not their hands pulling him under, after all. 

So sleepy, so good, so confused, so doesn’t matter. Stiles feels fucking excellent and he’d like quite desperately for Scott to know this feeling also. He wants a cuddle. He wants a Scott bear hug. He wants everything. Happily, he needs nothing here in this velveteen heaven. 

Only one questions begs answering, where did the water go? Stiles is almost certain he wasn’t born with gills.

. 

The giggling he’d chased to the seabed is now a chorus, wailing and howling and laughing with unsuppressed gladness. Though their mouths remain closed, while not a single twitch of a muscle suggests this noise is theirs, he knows it to be so. How can it be from anything else? Certainly not from the coral, swaying passively with the currents that wind through its gardens, nor the schools who gather to pay tribute and reap reward by its fair hands.

He wonders if magic is as real as the canines laying dormant beneath his gums. These golden wonders certainly seem like witches to Scott, all perfect and innocent at first glance but with an obvious darkness found if you only search for it long enough. He cannot help his grin, though. This is so easy. 

They appear not to have noticed him, yet. While he doesn’t trust what his eyes behold, though instinct causes his momentary glee to wobble and he can feel a ripple of something else, something far more serious than an underwater choir, what choice has he but to indulge his curiosity? See, their gilt eyes are transfixed on a figure too small in comparison for Scott to view clearly from his distance. 

He braves a few feet closer to the fair ones and in doing so a smile returns to his lips. 

There he is.

He has at long last found his Stiles.

Stiles is falling asleep beneath the waves, cocooned within a golden gasp of beautiful. Momentously, he eyes a vibrant Scott and is immediately wide awake and giggling. Scott’s grinning, too, and then he’s laughing exuberantly and Stiles feels so fucking high. 

This pleases the merpeople, although Stiles is too blissful to see the satisfaction within their beaming eyes. 

One more successful steal.

This is how the merpeople work: they lure humans to their watery cities with a sparkle and a giggle before capturing them in an endless laugh. The knowledge is universal that humans are most vulnerable when happy. Consequently, their energy can be taken with little more than a wink. Once that vitality leaves the body it becomes a shell that sinks to the bottom of the seabed, with the ghost of a smile still hinting at its porcelain lips. 

What the world doesn’t know is that the coral beds they so admire consist of the laughs of thousands of poor lost girls and boys, the current forever eroding their shape and twisting it into something new, something beautiful.

The gardens of the merpeople.

. 

They want Stiles. 

Scott can see that in their indulged faces and a part of him wants desperately to keep Stiles for himself because Stiles will forever be more beautiful than these fantastic creatures. Another part leaves him feeling as though his grin is plastered to his face with cement and that the laughter bubbling from his chest is not his own, yet it sounds just like him. 

These creatures breathe contentment into him, willing or no. He feels fucking grand, and he feels mildly terrified, and he wants to swim closer to Stiles but he can’t seem to move. He feels a mounting exhaustion, like the laughter is stealing his breath, stealing his very being and he can’t even twitch a finger and he just wants to sleep. 

Stiles, don’t ever leave me.

Maybe if he rests his eyes for a moment, he can pull all the energy reserves from his muscles and fight this glorious prison of glee. Even that seems dangerous, though. There is some instinct inside of him telling him to get them the hell out of there. He wants to, except he really doesn’t. 

Because he truly does feel so incredibly wonderful. 

Everything is hilarious and they’re raucous with glee. Stiles feels as if he is emptying, as if happiness is stealing every other thing in his head, in his belly, in his bones. He doesn’t mind because it feels rather pleasant, even better than this new sensation of breathing beneath the surface. 

Perhaps he does notice, during a hiccup between gasps of amusement, that this really is very bizarre. He pays the passing thought no mind, has no energy to do more than smile serenely. His eyelids feel a little too heavy for the time of day he thinks it to be, his memory of anything before this watery eden somewhat vague, but it’s a nice weight that leaves him feeling rather excellent. 

Scott looks so damned happy and it only improves Stiles’ own good nature. He nudges him, the movement awkward through the deep water. Scott smiles sleepily up at him, nudges him back. A frown passes over his friend’s brow briefly and then disappears again as though nothing as such had occurred. 

. 

Scott doesn’t know how to keep a hold of himself, feels like something is attempting to erase his thoughts from his mind. He hasn’t given permission for this, doesn’t want this foggy contentment. 

He keeps tripping between ecstatic and confused and it only leaves him all the more lost and with the distinct impression that something somewhere has gone terribly wrong. The merpeople look too pleased with themselves, satisfied over something he can’t quite place his finger on. That they can breathe underwater, that they feel so disarmingly awesome. Something feels fishy. 

The more he lingers on this niggling doubt, the more he finds a pressure to grin, a demand to feel happy. Has it been this controlled the entire time? And for that matter, when did this begin? Where were they before this blinding glee, and where are they now? Blue is all he knows in this golden kingdom. 

Can he even recall his own name?

For that matter, what is a name? Something simple, pleasant to roll off the tongue, he’s sure. But what?

The corners of his mouth are turning up but he doesn’t feel a reason to smile, even with the giggle bubbling at his throat. 

No, he thinks. 

No.

Scott remembers his name.

Suddenly, the golden light switches off and navy darkness swells around him, a new silence settling into his ears to replace what had become a customary background of laughter. He feels a little depressed now, as if someone has turned off the sun. All previous thought returns to him and he remembers again the danger in lingering. When he turns to face them, their dull complexions scream answers at him. 

He understands now. 

They thrive on human happiness, must surely use it to drain the energy of their captives. As he continues gazing curiously at them, they look confused, perhaps even mildly concerned. The largest one, though, only looks enraged. 

He is twice as grey as his companions. He doesn’t look nearly so impressive without that magnificent vitality. The more they stare at one another the more this king looks to be fading into his navy surroundings, disappearing into the swell of blue, energy dwindling as that one time strength now eludes him. 

He is suddenly so breakable.

Apparently, so too are Scott and Stiles. With the light also went their ability to breathe. They need to surface.

Immediately. 

With no time to think, Scott folds to his instinct, launches at the fading master and, with great surprise, swims directly through him, like through a mast of deep fog. The once king dissipates into the shadows of the ocean, silent and unassuming, forever to be forgotten. His kingdom climbs into every available pocket of darkness, unwilling to meet the same fate as their matriarch. Scott doesn’t reflect on this, has not the time nor the focus. His lungs are exploding and he cannot reach Stiles.

Stiles.

Lightyears away from his fingertips, just beyond the borders of his power, a hairsbreadth from safety. 

Please, begs Scott. Take the monster instead, he’s nothing in comparison.

Please. Not him, not the innocent.

Please, just a little further.

Please.

Please.

Cold fingers lace with cold fingers, frightened eyes battle and then a silent agreement begins. Both or none. All or nothing.

Do or die.

Scott pulls and Stiles kicks. They’re losing.

Scott wants air and Stiles needs release. They’re losing.

Scott feels the wind and Stiles gives in. They’re losing.

Scott screams and Stiles sleeps.

They’re losing.


End file.
